


and your flesh shall be my eulogy

by shilu_ette



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Atobe is an asshole, Everyone Grows Up, M/M, Ryoma is a moping kid, Tezuka is an idiot, but not really, so many skeletons and ghosts in all your closets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:43:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5311580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shilu_ette/pseuds/shilu_ette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They meet again years later with old childhood animosities and rivalries. Ryoma is a photographer while Kunimitsu is about to go pro, and Atobe is somewhere in the background as a mere annoyance, until he isn't. There are some choices Ryoma must make, resentments he must leash out, before he can move on with his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and your flesh shall be my eulogy

**Author's Note:**

> One of my longer fics where everyone is older and has issues about real life, aka the reason/manifesto why I think that Ryoma and Keigo would actually work only after they're both older and life fucked them up a bit.

In his first photograph, Kunimitsu is there in the foreground.

He had been unblinking and rigid throughout the multiple clicks, and the photo seemed to show this; show the man and how he had squared his shoulders, with his glasses and his thin lips. Ryoma had fiddled with the camera for a minute and ignored the confusion and disapproval he sensed from the older boy. But Kunimitsu had indulged him and studied his picture seriously once Ryoma printed it out, as he was in all matters of his life. He gave the printed picture without commentary.

"Does this make you happy?" he only asked.

Ryoma considered this, his wounds still raw and his rage still fresh. He looked at Kunimitsu and his hands, and the picture that he had created.

"Yeah," he finally said. "I...yes. I guess it does."

There was a nod, a brief clasp of hands. That was Kunimitsu’s way of paved silence and intentions. He doesn’t know still whether that was a rebuke or resignation. Years ago, he had cared enough to delve into hidden messages and unspoken words. That was then; this is now.

/

/

/

Ryoma hates this party.

There’s nothing he can do about it, most unfortunately. He had insisted very adamantly that he would come, so it was technically somewhat his fault. Kunimitsu was tying a necktie with a furrowed brow when he had entered into their bedroom a few hours ago.

“Tie?” he ventured out. Kunimitsu had tried to smile at him and ended with a grimace.

“A party. You…you wouldn’t like it,” he said, and Ryoma was very amused and irritated that Kunimitsu didn’t really know him after all these years. That hesitation sounded like a challenge that was issued deliberately, as the older man fumbled with the knot. Ryoma crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway. “It’s very formal, very droll. Many people,” he added, when Ryoma wouldn’t budge. “Atobe’s hosting it—for…have we discussed this?”

“He’s sponsoring you for the season,” Ryoma supplied, and Kunimitsu nodded absently.

“It’ll be quite grand,” he said, somewhat gravely and resignedly, “If you’ll remember how Atobe is. _Do_ you remember?” And Kunimitsu gave him a hesitant look, as if suddenly remembering Ryoma’s tendencies to forget past players and mostly about their past, mostly forgetting everything in general. Ryoma shrugged.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said cheerfully, too cheerfully, in fact, that Kunimitsu stopped trying to maneuver his tie to give him a suspicious glance. “It sounds nice. Can I come?”

Kunimitsu transferred his confusion from the tie to Ryoma, his eyes narrowed in concentration. “Party?” he repeated, his mouth trying to form a polite excuse. There wasn’t any, and Ryoma had the pleasure of seeing the composed man flounder a bit before sighing. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said wearily, “You can come. I hope you behave yourself, though. I told Atobe I wasn’t bringing anybody.”

“He’ll remember me,” Ryoma dismissed, and this time, the grimace in Kunimitsu’s face was evident.

“I’m sure you’re the only one that has ever shaved his hair off, so yes, I am assuming,” he said dryly. “Be nice,” he added, this time somewhat sternly, and Ryoma raised an eyebrow. “Be…be polite. Don’t aggravate him.”

“I don’t aggravate people,” Ryoma replied, airily and coolly all at once. “They just tend to be easily provoked.”

Which was true. But Kunimitsu had clearly issued an order. It was that promise that was making him sulk and slither off to perch himself against the wall to observe people passing by. Kunimitsu was in the middle of the hall, shaking hands and looking at Ryoma ever now and then warily.

 _I’m not a fucking child and he’s not a babysitter_ , Ryoma thinks nastily, giving him a faux-sweet smile when their eyes meet. _I’m twenty-five and_ he’s _too old to be getting the championship title in his first season. If he even remembers that._

He doesn’t voice his thoughts aloud, of course. He rarely does these days. He attempts to mask his irritation as soon as Kunimitsu looks away, balancing his wine glass delicately between his forefinger and thumb. He squashes himself against the wall more resolutely when Kunimitsu finally approaches him, after more handshakes and smiles that are strained.

“Admit it,” Kunimitsu says, when he joins Ryoma into becoming flattened wallpaper decorations amidst Atobe’s party. “You hate it.”

“Dunno what you’re saying,” Ryoma replies, “Lovely crowd, lovely food. Didn’t you see me smile?”

Kunimitsu sighs. “Ryoma, you have that look,” he says, with some reprove.

“My look? Do I have looks now?” Ryome crosses his arms and stares balefully at the scenery in front of him. “I _wanted_ to come, you know. It’s a big night for you.”

“I thought—“

“Well, I think about some stuff too,” Ryoma snaps, and Kunimitsu falls silent. “Contrary to what you think.”

They stay like that in sullen silence before Kunimitsu breaks it. “I’m sorry,” he says tiredly, “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m glad that you came, really. This party is disastrous.”

Ryoma accepts the peace offering with a curve of his lips. “Not your type of crowd?”

Kunimitsu chuckles lightly. “I don’t think so, no—“

“Tezuka,” a voice cuts in, very light and very airy, and very, very suave. “What a pleasant surprise.”

And suddenly Atobe is there. He appears out of nowhere, clad in a pale grey piece suit and sparkling cold eyes, his light brown hair slicked and neat. The ghost inside Ryoma’s memory sparks; a fourteen-year-old boy is now replaced with a slim young man, as confident as Ryoma ever remembered him as. He effortlessly moves around the floor and manages to nod at every lady and gentlemen in his vicinity, a little tight nod, while never leaving his eyes at Kunimitsu.  Seems to twirl into their line of vision as he smiles. Shark-sharp, Ryoma notes.

Besides him is a younger boy, perhaps younger than Ryoma, barely out of college. The boy is also dressed in a formal suit with a shining silver watch that catches the chandelier light whenever he flicks his wrist, which was as often as the boy deemed decent. It must be a new watch, Ryoma thinks. The boy catches Ryoma looking and sneers, his pale pink lips curling unpleasantly.

He doesn’t even know what etiquette Atobe uses, because it was Atobe that had invited Kunimitsu, him and his slandering money that paid for his sponsorship and the ballroom and this horrid party. And perhaps for that boy’s watch too, if there was any indication at how the boy arched up to meet Atobe’s movements like a feline.

“And Echizen.” He is surprised that Atobe even remembers him, but then again, he was one of the few people who had prodded Atobe’s nerves, and people like Atobe would never forget those moments (and perhaps the haircut might have helped, Ryoma isn’t really sure). “What a surprise as well. I didn’t know the two of you still kept in touch.”

“Atobe,” Kunimitsu cuts in, before Ryoma could reply with something possibly obscene (he would never) and gives him his hand to shake, “Thank you for inviting us.”

Atobe doesn’t look puzzled one bit about how Kunimitsu would bring a former underclassman back in his Seigaku days to a sponsorship party, and merely shakes his hand. “Yes, yes, but of course,” he says airily, “And if all goes well, we’ll all end up going home happy. Father is not the most jubilant about this, you understand.”

Ryoma stays silent, partly because he thinks Kunimitsu would like that, and partly because he is too busy observing the people around him. He gives a small jolt when Kunimitsu lightly pokes him. “Um, yeah,” he mumbles, making his eyes snap back to Atobe and his amused (or contemptuous) smirk. “Yeah, really…nice party you set up.” He sounds horribly phony. Kunimitsu gives a little frown but Atobe chuckles and gestures Kunimitsu to follow him.

“Really Tezuka, I don’t know how you manage….”

Ryoma doesn’t follow them, not even when the strange boy quirks an eyebrow at him and trails after the two former captains. He only leans back against the wall and observes Kunimitsu disappearing with the medley of people who all laugh in such false titters and chuckles.

He feels very tired.

/

/

/

He remembers Atobe Keigo in little bits and pieces. He now tries to reassemble them in his mind, as he signals to a wandering waiter to snatch another glass of champagne. Kunimitsu wasn’t far off the mark when he mentioned Ryoma’s poor memories for people and places in general. He sips his glass.

Atobe didn’t play for the high school circuits; he had, one day, simply disappeared and everyone assumed that he was gearing towards a life more set for academia and business. Kunimitsu had never mentioned his former rival, so everything Ryoma had to go on at the moment are fleeting matches in junior high, including his own match (and the infamous shaving incident with the even more infamous hair regrowth). But it isn’t his own match that Ryoma is mulling over with his wine glass. He is beginning to remember the match between Atobe and Kunimitsu, the match at the start of regionals. His first year; when he was barely a month back in Japan and already a cocky tennis regular.

That was the only public place that the two captains had interacted on a personal level. He had never thought to ask about the significance of that match, did not even think there was such significance to the match. He only remembers that it was a long game, and that game from the regionals and Kunimitsu’s loss had haunted him throughout his own match with Atobe in the nationals. He remembers a firm handshake between the two captains and Atobe’s blank face even after his coveted victory, a face and a handshake that he did not give to Ryoma.

While they were playing, Atobe had shouted hoarsely, ‘Tezuka—you sealed your downfall with making _him_ the pillar of Seigaku!’ Those words shouted across the courts at Kunimitsu.

He was aware, back then, that he was playing through shadows. It did not bother himself so much —does not think it bothers him so now, even. He is just trying to rationalize. That was the match he had to go on, the match that would make him understand why Atobe was doing this for an adolescent rival. The party, the invitation, this entire whim that Atobe had created, this would last for a season. And then, what then?

He doesn’t know what is expected of him in this new setting. He needs a fucking light and a smoke, but he would then smell of cigarettes and there would be disapproval from Kunimitsu.

“Tezuka looks terribly lost, but he has nothing on you,” Atobe remarks. He has suddenly, once again, materialized from thin air, blocking his line of vision. He plucks the empty champagne glass from Ryoma’s hand and offers him a new one. Ryoma warily takes it. His boy is nowhere to be seen, and neither is Kunimitsu. No niceties, no _what a pleasant surprise Echizen, how nice, etc._ , all very straight to the point. Ryoma actually likes it. “Are you finding this dull?”

“No,” Ryoma says, if only to be polite. “Just tired.”

Atobe smiles, a smile that comes before he wants to say something quite nasty. “Ah yes, tired,” he repeats, “Do tell me, what is it that you do nowadays?”

Ryoma gives Atobe a sharp look, but Atobe is merely holding the presence of being a perfect host. He shrugs. “I’m a student,” he says. “Graduate school and stuff. You know.”

“Tezuka also told me you take pictures,” Atobe says, “Although he didn’t seem too happy about it.”

“And that.” Ryoma thinks it’s too early for a scowl to come up. “Why’d you ask if you already knew?”

“Confirming rumors.” Atobe’s smirk is disdainful as he twirls the glass between his fingers. “I would have thought, the next time we’ve met, you’d have gone pro.”

“Kunimitsu is,” Ryoma points out, and realizes too late, shit.

“Ah, yes,” Atobe says, “ _Kunimitsu._ That _is_ what you call him nowadays, yes _?”_

He lets the familiar name linger between them, and Ryoma feels unnerved. A crowd of people passes by them, unaware of the thick silence that engulfs one corner of the room. Atobe stretches that silence with his smirk. It was definitely malice that he saw there.

“It is very touching,” Atobe begins again, “At how…dedicated Tezuka is to his relationship.” He phrases his words with delicacy and purpose, “And then of course, I always took him for a fallible romantic. Not quite in this direction, but nevertheless.”

Ryoma realizes the purpose of this threatening demeanor. He takes a quick chug of the drink to ward off his disgust.

“I’m not going public with him, if that’s what you mean,” he says curtly, “I only came here to annoy him.”

Atobe’s smirk falls, and a delicate coldness settles over his eyes. “Well, what a convenient time to annoy him then,” he says, “Seeing that all the most prominent executives and sponsors are here, and Tezuka just happens to bring along a ratty student that has nothing whatsoever to do with his tennis career.”

That doesn’t hurt as much as Ryoma expects it to have. Perhaps it is because he is lightly drunk, or perhaps it’s been his instinctive nature to disdain Atobe, whose hair is stupid and tends to remind him of idiotic snots, and therefore have never given monkey king the chance to avenge him.

“Oh, yeah,“ he says, “So sorry about that.”

Atobe frowns. Now he looks irritated. “You should have thought that over before you came,” he says, his tones more clipped, “People talk, you know.”

Ryoma wants to sneer and leave. He opts for a shrug instead. “He invited me.”

“Out of politeness, I daresay.” It’s unnerving how well Atobe could read Kunimitsu. He looks down at his glass and decides that his former option of scowling like a child would suffice, given the circumstances. He doesn’t want to fire back old barbs and contempt and he doesn’t want to talk. He didn’t come here to talk to people like Atobe.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he says, “I was leaving anyways.” Before Atobe could get the last word in, Ryoma adds, “And no one saw me. I wasn’t mingling around, so you can forget about how it’ll cause more scandal to his reputation or whatever.” He sets the glass down to one of the passing waiters and leaves, sidestepping Atobe gracefully.

/

/

/

Hands flex inside his dreams.

Those are calloused, graceful hands; fingers that Ryoma knows that come from years and hours of gripping the hard stick of a racket, hours of adjusting a sore, raw skin that had been chafed due to a wrong grip tape. Those are fingertips that strummed the frame of the racket in frustration, tips raw and red, old, dead skin encrusted in some places. They flex and fist themselves. He is an observer.

The hands come without a body and a face, and yet Ryoma knows those hands in the dreams. They reach out to him, have their own cooing voice, whispering monosyllables. He merely watches, fascinated. He himself is crouched against a black wall inside a dark subspace as he waits for those hands to touch him. Flex, open, close. The fingers mockingly wag. He thinks about wagging back.

He waits patiently.

“Ryoma.”

He is jerked awake, and the first thing he sees as he gasps and hurls around are brown orbs peering down at him. He thinks he snarls and lashes out an arm in mid-air, but Kunimitsu had good reflexes, from years of dodging homicidal balls and an even more homicidal Ryoma. He sits up very ungracefully, his heart beating rapidly, as Kunimitsu takes a step back and watches him warily. He thinks he sees a hand move.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” he spits, his throat clogged with sleep and near-panic. He half-lashes out again and curls his arm at the last moment, thinks of burying his face against it. He heaves a breath. “Just…don’t touch. I’ll be okay.”

Kunimitsu watches him solemnly, as if he feels he is obligated to be witness to his nightmare. _It was just a dream_ , his mind firmly tells him. _You are being a colossal idiot. Don’t be a fool._

The last voice sounds just like his old man, and he quickly squashes the voice. Kunimitsu speaks up hesitantly when it his heaves grow into steady breathing.

“You were asleep on the sofa.”

Ryoma bites down condescension for speaking the fucking obvious, and nods tersely instead.

“You left early.”

“Atobe cornered me,” he says, before he could organize his thoughts. “He warned me not to make a scene. I was about to punch him, so I left.”

Kunimitsu frowns, his teeth worrying over his lips as he surveys Ryoma hunched form. “I wasn’t aware of this,” he says slowly, “Did he cause you trouble?”

“No,” Ryoma cuts shortly. He rubs a hand over his face and is somewhat surprised that his forehead is sleek with sweat. “He….he just told me off, that’s all. He was right,” he adds in, before Kunimitsu could do something ridiculously moral and defend his honor, “I shouldn’t have come. People would have talked.”

Kunimitsu regards him with pain, so much blatant pain that Ryoma wonders why he even bothers. Kunimitsu’s hands twitch; Ryoma looks at them before he quickly looks away again and fixes his gaze towards the front, but Kunimitsu would never miss a thing.

“Did you have a nightmare?” he asks.

Ryoma finds it appropriate to roll his eyes. “Obviously,” he snipes, standing up. After all these years, he is very irritated that the older man is still nearly a head taller than him. He dusts off his palms together to ward off the irritation. “It was nothing. I was tired. Busy week.”

“Have you gone to counseling this week?”

 “Busy,” Ryome says shortly. He wasn’t about to elaborate, and judging by the sigh from Kunimitsu, he doubted if anyone was looking for a fight either. “You must be tired too,” he attempts instead, trying on a small smirk, “Catering to the whims of the fancy and the rich.”

“To Atobe? I forgot how tolling it was,” Kunimitsu says dryly. He still hasn’t undressed, and his tie is hanging like a drooping noose. “He’s very demanding to please, harder to escape from.”

Ryoma laughs this time, rolling his shoulders and cracking his joints. “Can’t blame me for running away, then.”

“No,” Kunimitsu says, finally letting some amusement seeping through his words, “No. I suppose I really can’t now, can I?”

Ryoma grinned. His arms reach out for the older man. His fingers flex out of their own accord and he tries hard not to stare at it. “Hurry up and shower,” he says, in what he hopes is a cajoling manner, “I’m tired.”

Kunimitsu raises an eyebrow but takes both of his hands onto his own larger ones. “Yes,” he says dutifully, “Do you want to sleep together then?”

“That is sort of the point,” Ryoma points out, a bit dry, “So, yeah. Let’s.”

Kunimitsu gives him a look. “No guest room detours,” he says.

“No sleepwalking into the guest room,” he agrees easily, “although, I can’t help that, you know.”

Kunimitsu twitches his lips and doesn’t come up with a witty reply to that. Ryoma is forced to stare patiently into Kunimitsu’s brown eyes, hooded, and squash his irritation. “Alright,” Kunimitsu finally says quietly, “Get into bed. I’ll join you in a minute.”

/

/

Sometimes Ryoma doesn’t know what he should feel for Kunimitsu. He had trusted the older man once: trusted his nimble fingers and quirky mouth and serious face. He had taken the hand that promised him great things, laughed and consoled him in the worst moments during training, and accepted the invitation to London to for Wimbledon. They were going to play against each other and win Wimbledon, either one of them; it didn’t matter who. They said those words often enough in cold, tired nights, huddled in their flimsy coats and takeout dinners that Kunimitsu frowned at but ate because they could not afford more in a foreign city with its jarring accents. They gave each other wry smiles in a cold land and bumped their fists together, eye glittering amidst the flashing lights and abandoned street courts. They made a promise.

Now, he doesn’t know what to think, where he stood within Kunimitsu’s world. Whether Kunimitsu mattered in his life choices.

He wakes up in his bed in the middle of the night, but to be fair to both of them, they (he) had expected this. Kunimitsu is still sleeping, and so he quietly lifts off the covers of his sheet and sits. His feet touch the wooden floor and his feet are soon cold. He stares out at the blackness and hears Kunimitsu’s breath in the silent room. He forces himself not to stand up and walk out to sleep on the sofa.

In his thoughts at night, those are the only times when he truly blames Kunimitsu, hates him with all his might.

/

/

“Isn’t monkey king supposed to be married by now?” Ryoma asks in the morning.

Kunimitsu blinks. He is still in his not-awake state, and stirring his cup of coffee out of habit. “Monkey king—oh, you mean Atobe,” he says, his voice implying the layer of disapproval of what he thinks of childish nicknames. Ryoma ignores the tone. “I...yes, I suppose so. His father is very keen on the idea, of course.” Kunimitsu furrows his eyebrows. “Although I don’t think Atobe is up for it anytime soon.”

“He had a date,” Ryoma says, “He had a boy-toy hanging about him.”

Kunimitsu continues stirring his coffee. A bit more vehemently, Ryoma thinks, “Yes,” he says tiredly, “I—yes. Atobe does seem to like his dates a bit young. He has….peculiar tastes.”

Ryoma hums and raises an eyebrow. “Peculiar?” he asks loftily. He snatches the toasted bread before Kunimitsu can and butters the crisped surface. He adds blueberry jam and smears it generously, hands it over to a wary Kunimitsu. “I didn’t know having young boyfriends was suppose to be weird. I’m just curious, that’s all.” He rolls his eyes and smirks. “No need to go all defensive.”

Kunimitsu takes the smeared toast and nibbles at it. “You don’t take interest in other people,” he points out, “I needed to think what ulterior motive you have.”

Ryoma just smiles sweetly at him, and after a moment Kunimitsu relents with a sigh.

“There’s not…boyfriends,” he says slowly, “I think Atobe hires them from time to time. For enjoyment, possibly for social gatherings.”

“So they’re rent-boys,” Ryoma supplies. Kunimitsu throws him a stern look.

“I was trying to say that without stating it so blatantly,” he says dryly, “But, yes. Atobe seems to like the novelty of hiring new faces. Not that it should make you think of him any less. He is,” and Kunimitsu punctures his point with a forkful of eggs, “an astute businessman all the same.”

Ryoma tsks. “He’s still a monkey,” he dismisses and Kunimitsu shoots him an evil look this time.

“You shouldn’t hold such childish grudges, Ryoma,” he says gravely, in his lecturing voice. Ryoma doesn’t even bother to reply to that. It’s not grudge, it’s an _endearment_ , and monkey king should be fucking grateful for it. He waits until Kunimitsu finishes his breakfast, and with a winning smile says, “I’m heading downtown. People to meet, places to go.”

Kunimitsu raises an eyebrow. “Have you met new people already?” he asks, a bit dubious.

“Or maybe just place to go,” Ryoma amends, and shifts over the bag that he had innocently placed next to him. Kunimitsu’s gaze turns dark when he sees the bag. “I’ll be back before dinner.”

“Of course,” Kunimitsu says politely, staring at his lumpy bag. His eyes meet Ryoma’s again to offer him a tentative smile. “I hope the sun is bright enough for good photos,” he says somewhat dutifully. Ryoma ignores the strained tone. Kunimitsu is trying, he thinks. He is at least coming to terms with it.

He smirks and stands up. He thinks of giving out a kiss goodbye, but he isn’t in the mood to pretend, not with Kunimitsu’s hunched shoulders and his forced smile. They can only bear one actor per scene, he decides, and wags his fingers instead. “Ta, then.” He backs out without a reply.

The sun has come up and it is brisk and cold. He heaves a gush of wind and is somewhat happy. He missed Tokyo somewhat, during their two years in London. The dreary nights and rainy days, with the cloudy overseeing. Too many people. Tokyo had its influx of people, true, but here they had a house a little out of the busy streets of Shibuya and Shinjuku. Their flat back in London was cramped and down in Charing Cross; one thing he did not miss, he didn’t miss the roaring of the railway tracks and the shouting roaring past their windows during rush hour.

He didn’t miss the people back there, too; he didn’t miss William.

He closes his eyes for a moment, and heaves a breath. Opens his eyes; exhales. He glares at the empty streets lain in front of him, lifts one foot up and one foot down.

 _The sun is shining and you’re miles away_ , he thinks numbly, _Don’t be a jackass, Echizen. Don’t flail about._

And he doesn’t. He trains his eyes at deserted alleyways and takes the subway down to Ginza, where all the pedestrians mill about. Posh people and even at this time of day, he can see the lushly dressed madams who are dolled up in silk kimonos with their cold assessing eyes. He steps out to a less congested area and pulls out his Leica, fiddling with the lens, his eyes keeping track of the winding passengers. He bites his lips, his head bowed.

When he first started to take photos, he started out with bamboos. They were fragile but very straight and sharp. Scholars had once took them to mean resilience, and he thought it ironically suited him considering the circumstances He liked the shadows that flickered out due to the sunlight, and he had raised a pot that held a few bamboo seeds back in London. They died out due to the chill, but before they withered into brown stacks, he had been able to trace a finger against the budding, smooth stems, crouched down in their flat. Those were his early days after he quit tennis. Kunimitsu hadn’t said a word; they did not talk in those few weeks. They did not know what to say.

But now he is in another city, with different people, people he somehow should feel somewhat warmer towards, but these pinched faces out early in the morning are as foreign to him as the people he has met anywhere; he is not good with people. At least he could begin to smell the familiar warmth of soy sauce drifting about in the alleyways.

"Hey, you."

He starts. The boy from the night before walks towards him, sunglasses hiding his eyes. There is no mistaking the sneer, though. In the morning, yesterday's perfectly slicked hair is bedraggled, and instead of the formal suit, he is dressed in a casual shirt and jeans. The boy gives out a mocking wave before he stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"Thought you looked familiar." The boy stops in front of him and Ryoma glares at the intrusion of his personal space. "You were there last night with that glasses guy, right? Keigo was gushing on about him, you've no idea." There is a shark-like smirk after that. "Or do you?"

"I don't know him that well," Ryoma says curtly. His fingers grasp the familiar edges of his camera and wills himself to be patient. It would be another hour before the sun would rise higher and ruin the delicate balance of light and shadow. He could afford to be pleasant and not make new enemies.

"He seems to," the boy muses, "Or at least, Keigo knew your partner pretty well. He is your partner though, yeah? Though I don't think the same can be said for you. He talked to you, though, didn't he?" The sunglasses were off, and Ryoma was greeted by a pair of black. beady eyes. Even at this hour, the boy's face was carefully made up, with a trace of black eyeliner. "What did he say?"

Ryoma shrugs. The boy waits, his foot tapping. They would look foolish standing here in the middle of the sidewalk together, Ryoma thinks. He frowns. "Nothing," he says. "Just to enjoy the party."

The boy snorts. "My Keigo doesn't be pleasantries," the boy drawls, "You are such a liar. I don't think you're very nice about it all, are you."

"Same goes for you," Ryoma says, before he can help himself (rent-boy, Kunimitsu's traitorous voice echoing in his mind) "We don't know each other that well, do we? It shouldn't give you room for liabilities."

The boy narrows his eyes. "Yeah?" he says coolly. "You're right, I guess. It's just a warning, though. He looked pretty pissed at you."

Ryoma sneers. It comes naturally to him, and he clasps his camera, his fingers a vice. "Didn't know Monkey King had little boys to play bodyguards for him," he says. He recalls back to Atobe’s eyes, his warnings, his dismissals. _What does the Monkey King want?_ And the answer comes to him easily, the match that Atobe had played with Kunimitsu a reminder. It was obvious what that rich boy wanted; Ryoma was surprised it had taken him a full day to figure it out. Before the boy could give out a scathing comeback, Ryoma composes himself and hurries on, "And tell your idiotic boyfriend to stay away from mine, and we'll be good, yeah?" He walks off and leaves the boy to gape in his wake. Good fucking riddance.

/

/

/

"Atobe called me," Kunimitsu says, as they are getting ready for yet another gathering a week later. This time Ryoma is specifically invited, and Kunimitsu had shown him the ridiculously ornate paper invitation decorated with the Atobe family company crest, his name elegantly typed with a flourish. "He wasn't very happy with you. Did you meet up with his," Kunimitsu coughs delicately, "His date, by any chance?"

"He stalked me in Ginza," he says flippantly, "In the main streets. I told him his boyfriend was boning for you."

"Atobe?" Kunimitsu raises his eyebrow but Ryoma ignores this.

"Yes, _Atobe_. And it's true; you know it, I know it, and I told him to stop pining for you and we can be happy."

"He's my sponsor. And my friend." Kunimitsu explains this to him as if this would be all new to him and Ryoma was an idiot for thinking otherwise. Ryoma wants to smack the older man and refrains just in time, but something must have shown on his face because Kunimitsu steps back warily and softens his tone. "As you're aware."

"And as _you're_ aware, he has this life-long obsession with you and maybe that includes getting to your pants," Ryoma says, "We're not middle school idiots, you know."

Kunimitsu shifts and his eyes twitch. "I'm aware," he says in his ever-patient tone. "But I think I would know when someone would take a fancy to me, yes?"

"Would you?" Ryoma says, innocently enough, and his next words come out with forced casualty, "But you'd know all about those cases, wouldn't you?" He lets his smirk play out and he thinks it may be a very ugly smirk, so he shifts and passes Kunimitsu's still form to head off to their bedroom. "Knot my tie for me again, yeah?"

/

/

/

The party is smaller but no less grand, and Atobe has another boy hanging at the crook of his arm. He rewards Ryoma's presence with a cold smile and a much warmer nod to Tezuka. Around them, people are tittering, they are trading glances at Atobe and fluttering eyelashes at Tezuka and confused looks at Ryoma. Ryoma rolls his eyes until Tezuka steps on him.

"Tezuka," he says smoothly, and ignores Ryoma in greeting, "I see that you haven't been detained by your other company."

"Atobe," Kunimitsu returns with the same formal tone, "Thank you for inviting us." And because Kunimitsu is well-mannered and nice, he gives a nod to the new boy, who seems to be much shyer than the first. He ducks his head and looks down at his feet. Ryoma rolls his eyes and ignores the poke that Kunimitsu is giving him. He isn't going to be the one to initiate greetings. He was raised by babarians, Kunimitsu would have to cope.

"And...Echizen." Atobe gives him a terse smile with the cold eyes, and Ryoma stares at him, eye for eye, and allows his own cold smile to play along at his lips. Atobe doesn't visibly react to that but he sees the older man's fingers curl. "How nice of you to come--again."

"You invited me," he points out, "I wouldn't have come, but you wrote my name. You even had the kanji right."

"Ryoma," Kunimitsu says tightly, and there was a burning look coming from the side. Ryoma ignores this.

Atobe laughs softly, and it sounds cool and deadly. "It's all right Tezuka," he says nicely, but his eyes are still trained onto Ryoma, and they still lack all the warmth from his voice, "I'll learn to cope. I forgot what a ratty mouth you had."

"I forgot what manners you lacked," Ryoma says sweetly before Kunimitsu could intervene again, and besides Atobe, the boy gives a little start and his head jerks up to stare at Ryoma with wide, frightened eyes. He ignores that stare too. "But I guess I'll learn how to cope too."

Atobe's lips drop and twist. They end up glaring at each other hatefully. Kunimitsu coughs delicately.

"Perhaps...perhaps you can show us the bar, Atobe," he says faintly, "I feel like we all should have a drink."


End file.
